Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

Angel looked away, thoughtful a moment. “Do I appear to be suffering guilt, Captain?”

  “I do not know, Angel, but many do. I have seen it. A single member of a gun crew will survive a battle and then be tormented by some species of guilt that he alone lived when all the others perished. Often, they feel it undeserved.”

  Angel nodded. “I do feel . . . great distress that so many others died while my brother and I were spared. I do not understand why . . . why us and not the others? And, yes, it does not feel deserved, though it is not my place to question the purpose of God.” He looked at Hayden then. “But I am not the only resident of this cabin who appears troubled, Captain Hayden. I imagine at times that you suffer some regret or sorrow.”

  Hayden had been at pains to hide this . . . but apparently was not as successful as he believed. He wondered if it was obvious to all or if only Angel had seen it because he shared Hayden’s cabin.

  “Disappointed hopes, Angel. A common affliction for sea officers, I fear. It is no small thing for a woman to marry a man who will spend his life at sea.”

  “And often in danger,” Angel added.

  “And that, as well. The cure for me shall be employment, which I hope to have plenty of once we reach Barbados. There is nothing worse than a long sea passage with little or nothing to break the monotony. One has far too much time to contemplate one’s troubles—an unhealthy state, to be sure.”

  “There are many ways to avoid one’s troubles, Captain—wine, gambling . . . brothels. Sometimes the enemy must be faced head-on. As an officer, I am quite certain you know this to be true.”

  “I do, but some enemies are not so easily vanquished and there is no choice but to fly from them . . . until one has time to gather one’s resources.”

  “That is true as well, Captain Hayden.” He raised his coffee cup as though to offer a toast. “To the enemies we flee—may we turn to vanquish them one day very soon.”

  “Hear,” Hayden responded, lifting his cup.

  As Hayden made his way to the deck not long after, he had the strange feeling that Angel had learned more of Hayden’s secrets than he had of the Spaniard’s. For some reason, he found this very slightly amusing—he did not know why.

  The day dawned and the sun burned down, its unrelenting fire relieved only by the constant cooling trades, sifting down skylights and scuttles and through the open gallery windows in Hayden’s cabin. On such days Hayden thought there was no better place to be in all the world, sails full and drawing, the crew busy about the ship, the broad-backed waves of the trades stretching off to the far horizon, a vast depth of blue both above and below. Mother Carey’s Chickens scuttled across a surface broken now and then by porpoises or a distant whale. Below, in the shadow of the passing ship, a small population of fish—dorados, striped pilot fish, and others Hayden did not know—had taken up residence and remained on station day after day. During the dark hours, schools of flying fish would smack into the topsides and occasionally one or two would make it onto the deck, where the ship’s cats patrolled in hopes of finding a fresh supper.

  The great enemy on such crossings, where the sails were set and sometimes their sheets not touched for days at a time, was chafe, and the bosun and his mates were seemingly always at work aloft, renewing thrummed mats and scotchmen, the slush bucket in steady employ. It was a happy ship, Hayden thought, which gave him a small sense of pride.

  There was, however, a pall hanging over his vessel—a palpable anxiety, if not a bridled fear. Its source was no secret: They were sailing towards the breeding ground of the Yellow Jack—the fever that killed without distinction of age, vigour, or rank. It was well known among hands and officers alike that, once contracted, recovery was beyond rare. This disturbing knowledge was a weight balanced against the very real prospect of rich prizes, for the seas to which they sailed were a cruiser’s dream—provided one survived to collect. Hayden often heard the men whispering—stories of crew mates who had caught the Yellow Jack—the stories almost always ending the same. There was, however, one man aboard who it was claimed—and he did not deny it—had come down with the dreaded fever and, against all odds, survived. His name was Jimmy Walker, though he was known as “Yellow Jack” among his mates—or just “Jack.”

  “Ask Jack about the fever,” one of the men would say, and he would saunter over and regale them with his gruesome tale—how a dozen men in the sick-berth all perished while he lived—a miracle he attributed to an overly regular intake of sauerkraut, which was sometimes carried aboard ships as an antiscorbutic. As a result, the ship’s allotment of sauerkraut was diminishing at a rapid rate and the men continued to request it at almost every meal. Dr Griffiths was of the opinion it had no effect in warding off either the scurvy or Yellow Fever, but Hayden allowed it to be served regularly because it eased the fears of some of the men and he well knew that the men feared disease even above the dangers of battle.

  The forenoon was a bustle of work about the ship, and Hayden found himself often in consultation with his lieutenants, who were yet unseasoned, and Mr Barthe, whose experience outstripped Hayden’s by more than two decades but who never acted beyond his station. The activity about the ship continued into the first dog-watch.

  When the sun had made its way into the west, Hayden found himself alone upon his sacred stretch of quarterdeck, and was drawn to the stern by the sparkling wake and some flicker on the distant horizon—likely a crest caught by the sun. He stood with his legs braced against the roll of the ship—for with a quartering sea she did roll terribly—hands upon the taffrail, almost too hot to touch in the sun.

  It was then that the voice drifted up to him—speaking ever so softly in Spanish. “Heavenly Father,” Angel whispered, “I thank you for delivering Miguel and me from certain destruction. I ask your forgiveness for the terrible sin I have committed and for which I shall do penance all of my days. I do not know, Heavenly Father, why you preserved my earthly life. I pray it is to allow me to erase this dreadful stain. If it is your will, I shall offer my life in your service. But if it is your will, Heavenly Father, that I shall endure punishment for my sin, I will accept it without complaint as your obedient servant. Your will be done. Amen.”

  Hayden heard a rustling below as Angel rose from where he knelt by the gallery window. It was only then that Hayden realised his shadow was very starkly cast down upon the sea astern.

  Not a moment later Angel emerged at the head of the aft companionway, clearly hurrying. Hayden had not seen any point in rushing off or trying to conceal where he had been—his silhouette, with its distinctive hat, was unlikely to be mistaken for that of anyone else.

  Angel came quickly aft and Hayden beckoned him onto the windward side of the deck—the small area reserved for the captain. He leaned over the taffrail, as though assuring himself of the distance to the open gallery windows.

  As a commander in numerous actions, Hayden had learned it was best not to wait but to seize the initiative. In this case, however, he felt it best to “boldly” retreat.

  “I do apologise, Angel,” Hayden offered contritely. “I came to the rail just as you completed your prayer. It was not my intention to eavesdrop upon your conversation with God.”

  “You heard me, then?” A wary look, sidelong.

  “Only at the very last.”

  Angel stood, staring out to sea for a long moment, perhaps unable to find words or uncertain how he felt. Then he nodded.

  “When we were cast adrift,” he began, his voice tight, “there were three of us: my brother, myself, and a seaman. He was an uncouth, brutal man, but he kept us all alive through the storm when my brother and I were too ill even to bail. When the storm passed we all understood our true peril. We had no food and only a small amount of rainwater we had collected in a bucket.” Angel stopped again, taking hold of the rail, as if the memories crept over him, too real to bear. “This seaman, he would not share the water but t
hreatened us with a knife and let us go thirsty. I had, secreted in my jacket, a small package wrapped in oilskin. When this man realised it, he thought I was hiding food, or perhaps valuables. He demanded it, and when I refused he attempted to wrest it from me by force. He and Miguel fought, but the sailor was a large, strong man, and he threw Miguel into the sea and then turned on me. What I had hidden in my jacket was not food—it was a pocket pistol, carefully wrapped and still dry. I could not let him take it, so I . . .” He closed his eyes and steadied himself. “I shot him . . . through the heart . . . and he collapsed upon me. That is why my shirt was soaked in blood. I helped Miguel back into the boat.” Angel paused for a second. “Less than an hour passed before the seaman departed this life; we rolled him over the side. That is my sin, Captain Hayden. I killed a man.”

  Hayden felt himself nod, trying to hide his utter surprise—he had been expecting a much more innocent sin from the likes of Angel Campillo. “Clearly, you acted in self-defence,” Hayden assured him. “You and your brother might not be alive otherwise.”

  Angel appeared to take no comfort from Hayden’s assertion. “It was proven to me, Captain, by the appearance of your ship that I was under the protection of God. Killing the man was not necessary. It was a moment of weakness . . . weakness of faith.”

  Hayden did not quite know what to say to that. Having had men attempt to kill him on more occasions than he cared to remember, he had never waited for the intercession of divine forces. He acted to preserve his own life.

  “Sometimes, Angel, we must act on our own behalf rather than await the hand of God. To stand passively, expecting your enemy to be felled by lightning or to be struck down in some other manner when he threatens your very life—that might not be lack of faith but imprudence, if not outright foolishness. God does not intervene in all of men’s affairs, no matter how great the faith of those involved. Too often we must draw upon our own resources.”

  Angel appeared to consider this.

  “Then you do not think I have committed a cardinal sin?”

  “The man threw your brother into the sea—to certain death. He likely intended the same for you. Your actions saved your brother’s life and almost assuredly your own. No court would blame you—not even a heavenly one, I am sure.”

  Angel appeared to struggle to master his emotions. “Thank you, Captain Hayden. Your words give me comfort. There is no priest to hear my confession and to counsel me in this matter.”

  “There is the Reverend Smosh . . .” Hayden suggested.

  Angel looked at him and almost smiled. “Do you not know, Captain, that I should burn in hell for all eternity for consulting a heretic?”

  “It had slipped my mind,” Hayden replied. “Do forgive me.”

  “I do not require the aid of Mr Smosh when I can speak with you, Captain. Was your mother not a Catholic? I am informed she was.”

  “She still is, to the best of my knowledge, but, like all sea officers in the Royal Navy, I am a member of the Church of England.”

  “Of course,” Angel said. He was silent a moment, but then glanced obliquely at Hayden. “Must you report what I have told you to your commander when you reach Barbados?” he asked softly.

  “It would be my duty to do so . . .” Hayden replied.

  Angel nodded. “Will there be a trial?”

  “An incident between Spanish citizens upon a Spanish vessel . . . I do not believe there would be. However, my commander would be obliged to report what occurred to the Spanish authorities.”

  Angel nodded again. “I see.” He made an awkward bow and took his leave then, thanking Hayden once more for his counsel.

  As Hayden had been eavesdropping upon the young man’s private conversation with God, he felt a small pang of guilt at being thanked.

  Well, he thought, what do I make of this? Certainly, he was under an obligation to report the incident. No court would find Angel guilty of any crime. The only witness was his brother. There would be stigma, perhaps, but then being exonerated by a court might relieve the young man’s obvious burden of guilt.

  It occurred to Hayden that this death did not explain why Angel and his brother appeared to be lying about their identities. There was, for that, some other explanation.

  Hayden found the doctor in the cockpit. Griffiths sat at a work table in a little stain of light cast by a single lamp, honing surgical blades upon a fine whetstone. Why he did not do this upon the deck in the brightness of day, Hayden could not comprehend, but the doctor displayed several small peculiarities of this nature—all speaking of a desire for privacy.

  Hayden repeated to Griffiths what he had overheard and the subsequent revelation that Angel had made.

  Griffiths removed his spectacles and examined them for some malignant mote that grew large in his vision and asked, rather bluntly, “And what if Angel was lying?”

  “What do you mean?” Hayden wondered, somewhat stupidly, he realised.

  Griffiths held his spectacles up to the dull light and squinted. “What if he was lying about killing the man—or about the reason he killed him?”

  The very idea took Hayden by surprise. The confession had seemed so very genuine, so heartrendingly difficult for Angel to own to. Even so, Hayden felt a little foolish. It certainly could have been a lie, and he should have considered this possibility himself.

  “I doubt anyone would confess to killing another and have it be a lie. It seems rather more likely that you would lie to cover over such a murder.”

  “Yes, unless what you actually did was worse . . .”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “Cut the ropes holding the boat to the ship and then shot the man or men you must share your food and water with. We all saw what happened on Les Droits de l’Homme when men panicked and swamped the boat.”

  Hayden sat down upon a stool. “Do you think this is possible? That Miguel and Angel are capable of such . . . treachery?”

  “We are, most of us, capable of more villainy than we suppose if we believe such villainy will preserve our precious lives.”

  Hayden felt as though he had suddenly wakened from a rather pleasant dream into a less than pleasant world.

  “Miguel,” Griffiths went on, “is a very amiable young man, Captain, but Angel . . . Angel has a kind of disingenuous charm that is difficult to resist. It is akin to the charm Mr Hawthorne displays, though of a much different nature. Mr Hawthorne’s charm serves very definite ends—at least when it comes to the female sex. I wonder if Angel’s charm, Captain, is not employed to some purpose as well . . . ?”

  He took up a rag lying on his small table and rubbed at the lenses of his spectacles.

  “You remain fast in your belief that our guests are criminals or frauds of some nature?”

  “We know they are frauds, Captain. You overheard them admit it.”

  “That is true, but it is possible they are hiding their identities in some cause that is not criminal. After all, not so long ago I was pretending to be a French sea captain named Gil Mercier.”

  “You were attempting to confuse our enemies, Captain,” Griffiths stated, replacing his spectacles upon the bridge of his nose and moving his head from side to side to see if he had expunged whatever smudge had offended his vision. “As Angel and Miguel are lying to us, perhaps they are attempting to do the same.”

  “Confuse their enemies . . . ?”

  Griffiths nodded.

  “French spies . . . ?” Hayden said with some wonder.

  “Spaniards in the employ of the French.”

  “Do you truly think that is possible, Doctor?”

  “If they are not criminals? Yes.” Griffiths reached up and stripped off his spectacles again, clearly frustrated that something still impaired his sight. “I should be careful what I told them, Captain. We do not know to whom they might repeat your conversations.”

&nbs
p; Six

  Hayden woke early and slipped out of his cabin and to the upper deck. He was avoiding his guests that morning, and he was not certain why. Unquestionably, it had to do with his conversations—first with Angel, and next with Griffiths.

  His steward, Winston, brought his breakfast to the quarterdeck and Hayden ate it perched upon a small bench. He busied himself about the deck then, while the sweltering sun floated up out of the eastern sea.

  Hayden climbed to the main-top, ostensibly to examine a check in the top-gallant mast but largely to get up into the clear air and push back his horizon, as though doing so would allow him to see beyond the doubts and questions that troubled him.

  He examined the sea at all points with a glass—a desert of watery dunes all moving in train towards the south-west. He heard a laugh below and looked down to find Angel climbing tentatively up the ratlines with Midshipman Gould and a top-man as escort. Upon the rolling ship this was an unnerving exercise for a landsman, and it became even more so as he climbed, for the roll became more pronounced with each rung. Still, the young Spaniard bore up and climbed on, clinging, white-knuckled, to the ropes, face flushed. His hat had been left below and his hair escaped its ribbon to stream in the wind and whip about his sun-browned face. With some instruction, he made his way around the futtock shrouds, and then his head appeared in the lubber’s hole. Hayden offered him a hand.

  “Captain Hayden!” he cried. “I did not realise you were here. Am I imposing?”

  Hayden shook his head. “In no way, Angel. I am merely taking in the view. Clap on there. You do not want to be thrown out of the main-top.”

  Gould and the top-man retreated, mortified that they had led Angel up into the tops when the captain was there.

  “You might find it best to sit,” Hayden said. “Loop an arm around a futtock, there.”

  When the young Spaniard was settled and safe to Hayden’s eye, he sat down by the aft-most futtock and looped an arm around this.

  Angel gazed out over the wind-driven blue and smiled broadly, exhilarated, if a little frightened.