Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  “You never climbed aloft on the Spanish frigate?” Hayden asked.

  “I did not, Captain Hayden.”

  “When I went into my first ship as a midshipman I was aloft at any excuse. The poor lieutenants—they could hardly keep me out of the tops.”

  “You take pleasure from danger, Captain,” Angel said. “Is that why you would not give up the service for the woman you spoke of . . . the one who disappointed you so?”

  The question caught Hayden by surprise. “The thought of giving up the service never entered my mind.”

  “But if you had—this woman you cared for—would she have accepted your suit?”

  The ship rolled to starboard so that Hayden was all but staring down into the sea racing by, inducing a moment of vertigo. “I do not know. I . . . I do not.”

  “Perhaps she was waiting for you to make such an offer—to give up the sea and make a life safely ashore with her.”

  At the end of the roll, as the ship lurched slowly back to larboard, Hayden’s shoulder was pressed hard against the shroud and he thought how easy it would be to slip off the main-top and plummet into the cold, fathomless, sea. “Perhaps . . . I cannot say.”

  He closed his eyes. Maybe she was waiting for just that . . . and he had been obtuse and not seen.

  Henri, Henri, he thought. Is that what you stood waiting to hear?

  For a long moment he stared off towards the veiled horizon, his last meeting with Henrietta perfectly recalled—a play he had attended a thousand times. She had been waiting for him to say something, he thought, but he had never understood what. Nor had it occurred to him that the ending could have been altered had one player but spoken a different line.

  “Have I said the wrong thing, Captain?” Angel asked gently.

  “I fear you have said exactly the right thing, but I never saw it myself—the greater fool I.”

  Hayden might have said more, but there was a call from below.

  “May I join you, Captain?”

  It was Mr Percival, the admiral’s secretary, his foot already upon the ratlines. Hayden beckoned him on. “Indeed, Mr Percival, climb up—but take a strong hold upon the shrouds. We do not want you swimming to Barbados.”

  One of the hands standing near beseeched the secretary to leave his hat in his care, lest it blow into the sea, and the hat was duly passed down. It took some little time for Percival to climb into the tops. Each time the ship rolled so as to throw him out over the sea, he would stop and thrust his arms through the shrouds, pressing himself to the tarred ropes as though to a long-absent love.

  Finally, though, he managed to squeeze himself through the lubber’s hole and emerge onto the platform, out of breath and crimson-faced.

  He took a seat between Angel and Hayden, clinging to the futtock shrouds like a man staring out of a gaol. As soon as he caught his breath and looked around at the great expanse of straining canvas, he said, “‘We have laughed to see the sails conceive, And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind . . .’”

  “Is it Shakespeare?” Hayden asked, his conversation with Archer coming to mind.

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Percival replied. “One of my favourite speeches. Do you know Shakespeare, Angel?” he asked of the young Spaniard.

  “Only a little. Romeo and Juliet, of course; As You Like It, and the one with the magician . . . Prospero, I think.”

  “The Tempest,” Percival declared.

  “That one was very difficult for my English.”

  “When you see the plays on the stage, it seems that all is made clear. Is that not so, Captain?”

  “It does make a great difference.”

  Without a hat, it was revealed that Percival’s hair on top consisted of lank little strands shot through with grey. Hayden did not know the man’s age—past sixty, he thought—and though the secretary was still moderately vigourous, his skin was dry-dull and his carriage leaning towards stooped.

  He was, however, a man of great erudition, an amiable dinner companion, and well informed on diverse subjects from literature to the production of cotton and sugar. He spoke several languages more than passably (though not so well as Hayden), and was widely travelled in his capacity of secretary to the admiral. He was not an unpleasant person to have aboard, and but for the recent awkwardness with one of the new midshipmen, Hayden considered him an excellent shipmate.

  Hayden thought himself to be somewhat imperceptive in certain matters, but he was quite confident in this particular case that Percival had not climbed up to the main-top for Hayden’s company. It was the young Spaniard who had drawn him there, which made Hayden wonder if Angel had not made the ascent to escape the attentions of the admiral’s secretary. Angel, however, gave no indication of finding Percival an aggravation. Quite the opposite, in truth. The two chatted away amiably in both Spanish and English until a call from below caught their attention.

  It was a rather distressed Miguel, who stood on the quarterdeck, staring up, hands planted on hips.

  “Come up!” Percival called down.

  Miguel, however, shook his head, appearing both angry and agitated.

  “Why will he not come up?” Percival enquired of Angel.

  The young Spaniard laughed. “He is fearful of . . . high up . . . like this.”

  “Afraid of heights?” the secretary prompted.

  “Yes. That is it. He is afraid of heights. I must go down.”

  “Well,” Percival replied, and appeared about to protest, “if you must.”

  Angel scurried, crab-like, to the lubber’s hole and slowly lowered himself, his head disappearing with a last, tight smile, perhaps a little apprehensive about the climb down.

  Ransome sent one of the topmen aloft to see that Angel reached the deck safely. Hayden and Percival watched the young Spaniard’s progress for a moment and then Percival looked at Hayden and smiled.

  “She is a very charming young woman, do you not agree, Captain?”

  “I do beg your pardon, Mr Percival . . . Do you refer to the young Spanish gentleman who just departed our company?”

  Percival laughed pleasantly and shook his head. “I do, Captain, but, for my money, she is no gentleman. I have seen many a comely young woman arrayed in the clothing of men—costume balls, you know—and she is not even one of the more convincing faux males.” His brow wrinkled. “You did not know?”

  “I confess, I doubt it yet.”

  Percival suppressed a smile.

  “You jest, Mr Percival, surely?”

  “I do not. Don Angel is a young lady dressed in the clothing of a man. I have not said a word of it to any other, because I wanted to observe her and Miguel without them realising I comprehended their deception. I did not know if you were aware of it.”

  Hayden almost laughed, though he did not quite know why. “You have left me somewhat speechless. I will admit to difficulty crediting what you suggest.”

  “Do take a close look at Angel’s hands when next you can. They are very fine-boned and small, the skin both soft and femininely smooth. She has perfect little ears; hips, though hardly broad, broader than a young boy’s; and her shoulders are comparatively narrow. She blushes modestly, and slips away at any bawdy jest, laughs like a well-bred young woman, walks as young noblewomen are trained to, has a wonderfully full and sensuous mouth, and eyes like no man. Her bosom has been wrapped to hide its swell, and—at the risk of sounding crude—her breeches are not quite as full as they should be. In sum, a handsome young woman in the clothing of a man. I believe she has deceived whomever she has because she is a Spaniard and the ship’s company does not quite know what to expect of a young Spanish nobleman and are not the least surprised to find him somewhat effeminate, as you must agree Angel is.”

  Hayden did not know what to say. Much of what Percival catalogued, upon even the briefest reflection he knew to be
true, but given that it had become the fashion among young men to display their finer feelings in public—weeping in the public theatre and at musical recitals—he would not have been in the least surprised to find a young man who blushed at the sailors’ bawdy humour. He did realise, however, that Angel never displayed his feelings in such a way that they would be noticed and admired for their intensity and purity, as the fashionable young men did. Angel’s refinement of feeling seemed quite natural and neither exaggerated nor affected.

  “Have you not noticed, Captain Hayden,” Percival said, interrupting Hayden’s thoughts, “that Angel is often in your company? I have seen her lingering on the deck, waiting until you have concluded some business with your crew, only to feign surprise when she finds herself in your presence. She does hang upon your every word, and catches herself when she believes her feelings too transparent. You saved her life, and I am of the opinion that, given her beliefs, she thinks you were sent to be her rescuer and she sent to rescue you.”

  “I do not believe I am in need of rescue, Mr Percival,” Hayden informed the secretary, trying not to sound scornful.

  “Are you not? Have you not suffered recently from romantic disappointment? Who better to rescue you than a young woman, who, I might add, has a great deal to offer? If one looks past her dress, she is comely and vivacious, her manner is both cultivated yet somehow simple and genuine, she is educated in the way of women of her class, she plays the pianoforte quite well, according to her brother, is a masterful conversationalist, charming in the extreme, and eminently sensible. All the men aboard value her company, even if they do not realise quite why, for most, like you, do not comprehend that she is a woman, and it is to her femininity that they respond.” Percival paused a moment to look down upon Angel, who had reached the deck and was pulling back his hair to tie it with a ribbon. Suddenly, this seemed an utterly feminine motion to Hayden.

  “Do you know the story, Captain Hayden, of the naturalist who took aboard ship with him a ‘boy’ who nightly shared his cabin? Upon arrival at their first South Pacific isle the natives immediately recognised this boy as a young vahine, though no one aboard ship had ever suspected. I wonder what it says about the English that we are so obtuse?”

  Hayden felt some irritation at this, as clearly he was one of the obtuse Englishmen—unless, of course, Percival was wrong.

  The admiral’s secretary appeared to read his thoughts, or perhaps his face. “Do not be embarrassed at this, Captain. No one else aboard has noticed that Angel is, in fact, a young woman. Any attraction they might feel to Angel would be a source of embarrassment and would be both suppressed and denied.”

  Below, Angel put a hand lightly on the shoulder of his brother, who was clearly still angered and distressed that Angel had climbed aloft. But why should he be? Young men habitually sought thrills of one sort or another. The gesture, the hand so lightly on the shoulder, was at once familiar and appeared, suddenly, feminine.

  “Do you see?” Percival asked quietly, his eyes drawn to the same scene. “She mollifies her elder brother. In a moment she will set her charm to work and very soon she will make him smile—even laugh. He is no more able to resist her charm than I am . . . or you are, if I may say it.”

  Percival rolled up onto his knees from where he sat and went on hands and feet to the lubber’s hole. He lowered himself over the edge and said, “It has been a pleasure speaking with you, Captain.” He was about to disappear when his eyes narrowed and he pointed. “What is that speck . . . far off?” he asked. “Or do my eyes deceive me?”

  Hayden followed the secretary’s gaze, and there, just on the horizon, was an amber-brown smudge, so small it was almost undetectable. Standing, Hayden looped an arm around a shroud and raised his glass.

  “Mr Archer!” Hayden called down to his first lieutenant.

  “Sir?” Archer shaded his eyes and looked up.

  “Sail, off the larboard bow, just on the horizon.”

  Hayden raised his glass again. The lookout, whom Hayden had sent down to give himself a moment of privacy aloft, came scrambling up.

  “Lambert!” Hayden called to him as he climbed.

  “Sir!”

  “See our guest reaches the deck safely, if you please.”

  “Aye, Captain. That I will.”

  Hayden lifted his glass and quizzed the distant sail once more.

  “Can you tell anything of her, sir?” Archer called up.

  But Hayden could not . . . A ship, nothing more, so distant as to be invisible from the deck. “I cannot, Mr Archer. We will alter our course to intercept. Call the sail handlers, if you please.”

  “Aye, sir,” came up from the deck.

  Hayden lingered a few moments more, his mind torn in two directions at once—wanting to consider the remarkable conversation he had just held with Percival, and drawn to this strange sail.

  He forced his mind to his duty and went down the back-stay, hand over hand.

  Archer stood waiting for him.

  “Shall we beat to quarters, Captain?”

  “The moment we have altered course, Mr Archer. Where is Mr Wickham? Send him aloft. Let us see if he can make out this ship.”

  The sail handlers hurried to their stations, but there was no panic, no pushing, despite the palpable excitement. Mr Wickham appeared and went up the mainmast, a gaggle of off-duty midshipmen tailing behind, their shiny new glasses slung over their shoulders in imitation of Lord Arthur.

  Wickham did not stop at the main-tops but climbed on until he sat astride the top-gallant yard. The ship was put on her new course, picked up her skirts and went surging over the trade-driven seas, which now struck the Themis abeam, sending heavy spray sometimes high into the rigging. The gun crews went to their places, but before they had cast off their guns, a call came from aloft.

  “On deck!” Wickham twisted about to find his captain. “She appears to be under jury rig, Captain. Only a stump of one mast standing.”

  Barthe had come, and stood by his captain at the rail, where they had a view of Wickham. “Is she a Navy ship, Mr Wickham?”

  “I cannot be certain, Captain, but I do not believe she is. Transport, more like. No flag that I can see.”

  “Keep your glass on her, if you please,” Hayden called up. “And be alert for any sign that she is not alone.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Gould stood a few feet off. “Sir? Shall I send aloft our colours?”

  “Not yet, Mr Gould. Have the French colours ready as well. We shall quiz this ship before we draw within range of her guns—has she any to speak of.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Is she the other Spanish frigate, do you think, Captain?” Barthe asked. The master stood, hands on the rail, squinting off to the sector of sea that hid this mysterious vessel.

  “I cannot answer that, Mr Barthe. Where is Miguel? Mr Gould, find one of our Spanish guests, if you please.”

  Gould left his flags in the care of the cherub and scurried off. A moment later he returned, herding both Angel and Miguel before him.

  “The ship that struck the Medea,” Hayden began, trying not to stare quizzically at Angel, “was she a transport or a frigate?”

  Angel looked to Miguel. “We sailed in company with other frigates, Captain, but we did not see the ship that sank us.”

  “Well, we have a heavily damaged ship in the offing. I would like to know what she might be before I draw within range of her guns.”

  Miguel and Angel glanced at each other again, and Angel shrugged. “I do wish we could offer more, Captain Hayden.”

  “We shall discover her origin soon enough,” he replied.

  It was, however, almost two hours before they could make her out. Hayden went forward, the only place from which this ship could be seen clearly on their point of sail.

  Having beat to quarters, almost every
hand aboard had a station, but those few who had no duties gathered on the forecastle. The doctor was there, as was Hawthorne, who might range about the ship as he was needed once he had his orders from Hayden. Smosh was there as well, minus his clerical collar, as he would aid the doctor in the cockpit, should that be required, and there was terrible superstition about priests in the sick-berth. Both the Spaniards were here, as was Mr Percival, chatting with Angel in Spanish.

  The ship was not a mile distant, and Hayden could plainly see that she had only thirty feet of her foremast standing and had used spare spars or recovered yards to jury-rig a mast that crossed but one yard.

  “On deck!” came the call from Wickham. “I can make her out, Captain . . . She’s a slaver.”

  Seven

  It was not just caution that had the Themis hove-to a hundred yards to windward—the horrifying stench of slavers was notorious. Even the brisk trade could not carry this odour away. Hayden had sent Archer across to the slave ship, and now he returned with the ship’s master in his cutter.

  All along the deck the men stared at the drifting ship, which was stuffed to the gunwales with a cargo of Africans—men, women, and children. The slavers had allowed a few of these poor creatures out onto the deck to stand upright and take the ocean air—not from compassion, Hayden guessed, but in an attempt to bring a greater portion of their cargo to market alive and in a condition to be sold. These dusky men, all but naked, stared back at the crew of the Navy ship, perhaps uncertain if they were saviours or presented an even greater danger.

  “Poor buggers,” Barthe pronounced by Hayden’s elbow, though whether he meant the men being carried into slavery or the crew of the stricken ship he could not say.

  Smosh was positioned at the rail beside the master. “These men trade in souls,” he declared.

  Percival glanced at him. “You do not believe, Mr Smosh, that the inferior races were put here to serve men?”

  “I do not believe any race was put upon this earth to be worked and sold like cattle.”